Chapter 53 — The Weight Between Steps
Morning came without ceremony.
No jokes. No complaints. No careless noise.
That was how I knew something had shifted.
We packed up in near silence, movements efficient, practiced. Even Bran didn't grumble about stiff muscles or empty bellies, which was unsettling in its own way. Selia tied her gear with quick fingers, eyes sharp, humor tucked away like a blade she'd decided not to draw yet. Korran finished first and waited, arms crossed, gaze already outward. Lysara stood apart, quiet as ever, her presence more felt than seen.
And me?
I adjusted the bony mask—white, cracked from left eye to cheek—and tested my footing before every step.
Not because I was clumsy.
Because I was listening.
Volrag's voice surfaced uninvited.
"Your feet tell the truth before your eyes do. If the ground feels wrong, it usually is."
The forest path ahead dipped toward a ravine, trees thinning as stone replaced soil. The air smelled damp, heavy with moss and old water. I raised a fist.
Everyone stopped.
No delay. No questions.
That, too, told me something.
"Tracks," I said quietly.
Bran leaned forward, squinting. "Big?"
"Yes."
"Ugly?"
"Very."
Selia grinned faintly. "My favorite kind."
Lysara knelt near the path, fingers hovering just above the ground, not touching. "Something passed through recently. Heavy. Territorial."
Korran nodded once. "We don't go around. Too exposed."
I looked at the ravine. Narrow. Slippery. Bad footing.
Perfect.
"Same plan," I said. "No magic unless necessary. Spread. Watch the water."
Bran cracked his knuckles. "Finally. Something to hit."
We descended.
The ravine was quieter than it should've been. No insects. No birds. The stream threading through the center flowed slowly, surface unnaturally smooth.
I hated smooth water.
The thing erupted without warning.
Stone and water exploded upward as a Graveback Mauler burst from the stream, six limbs slamming into rock, plated skull swinging toward us with crushing force.
Bran swore loudly.
I moved.
No thought. No panic.
Step in. Weight forward. Blade low.
My sword struck the underside of its jaw, metal screaming as it scraped along bone-hard plating. The impact rattled my arms—but I didn't lose balance.
That mattered.
The Mauler roared, spinning toward Selia as she leapt sideways, blades flashing. "Over here, rockface!"
It lunged.
Bran met it head-on.
His hammer slammed into its shoulder with a sound like cracking stone, forcing the beast sideways. "STAY. DOWN."
It didn't.
Nothing that size ever did.
A backhand sent Bran crashing into the ravine wall. He slid down, swearing creatively.
"Korran!" I shouted.
Already there.
Korran slipped beneath the Mauler's next swing, blade precise, economical. He didn't fight for dominance. He removed options—cutting tendon, slicing muscle, forcing imbalance.
Lysara struck her staff against the stone once.
A signal.
I understood.
I sprinted.
Water soaked my boots as I slid beneath the beast, driving my blade upward between overlapping plates Volrag had drilled into my head to recognize. The sword sank deep.
The Mauler screamed.
Selia landed on its skull, blades plunging into its eyes.
The creature collapsed in a heap of stone, blood, and water.
Silence returned—earned this time.
Bran groaned from the wall. "Next time… can we fight something with fewer teeth?"
I leaned on my sword, breathing hard.
My hands weren't shaking.
That unsettled me more than the fight.
Korran inspected the corpse. "Clean. Efficient."
Selia looked at me, smirked. "Didn't trip."
"I almost did," I muttered.
She laughed softly.
Lysara's gaze drifted beyond the ravine. "We aren't alone."
That killed the moment.
"How close?" I asked.
"Close enough to observe," she replied. "Not close enough to interfere."
Which meant choice.
We moved on.
By nightfall, we reached old ruins—collapsed stone walls, moss reclaiming history. Shelter enough.
We lit no fire.
No one argued.
We ate cold rations. Bran complained under his breath. Selia listened too carefully. Korran sharpened his blade. Lysara watched the darkness like it might answer back.
I sat apart, mask tilted toward the stars.
Volrag had warned me about this.
"The fight ends. The danger doesn't. Pay attention to what happens after."
"You're quiet," Selia said, appearing beside me.
"I'm thinking."
"No," she said. "You're measuring."
I didn't deny it.
"They're not testing my strength," I said. "They're testing us."
Her eyes flicked toward the others. "Let them."
"Pressure reveals fractures," I replied.
"And pressure forges steel," she countered.
Fair.
Still, the air felt wrong.
Not hostile.
Patient.
A soft sound reached my ears—stone shifting where it shouldn't.
I stood slowly.
Korran was already watching the treeline.
Then it happened.
A scream—short, sharp—cut through the ruins from the forest path behind us.
Bran was on his feet instantly. "That wasn't an animal."
"No," Korran agreed. "That was bait."
Blood marked the trees ahead—not fresh, not old. Deliberate.
"I'll go," I said.
"No," Selia snapped.
"I'm fastest."
"And that's exactly why you're not going alone."
Lysara stepped forward. "I'll go with him."
Korran studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Five minutes."
We didn't get five.
We got three.
The clearing ahead erupted—not monsters.
People.
Six mercenaries stepped out from concealment like they'd been there all along.
One smiled.
"Shadeblade," he said calmly. "We were hoping you'd come."
My grip tightened.
Lysara's breath caught.
Because the man wasn't looking at her.
Only at the mask.
Only at the crack.
Only at me.
And somewhere behind us—
Something shifted.
Not yet attacking.
Waiting.
Patient.
Trust doesn't break loudly.
It fractures quietly.
And whatever came next would decide whether we held—or shattered.